


Thyme and thistle

by SiwgrGalon



Category: Shadowhunters (TV), The Shadowhunter Chronicles - All Media Types
Genre: Because they're the best kind of nerd, Cuddling, Flowers, Fluff, Folklore, Language of Flowers, Love Confessions, M/M, Magic, Mythology - Freeform, Northern Lights, Post S2, Scotland, Shakespeare, shakespeare quotes, soft, they're just being cute, this is probably really cheesy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-29
Updated: 2019-11-29
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:27:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21607543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SiwgrGalon/pseuds/SiwgrGalon
Summary: After everything that happened with the Soul Sword, Lake Lyn, and all that came between them, Magnus whisks Alec away on a break to the Isle of Skye.Between Northern Lights, fairytales, and a cosy cottage, truths come to light and Magnus finds his very own language of love: flowers. And Shakespeare.'What are you doing?'Nothing,’ the warlock replies, maybe a little too fast if Alec’s fond scoff is anything to go by.‘Am I supposed to believe that?’‘Well, uncharacteristically for the last 20 hours or so, I’m not doing you,’ Magnus counters.
Relationships: Magnus Bane/Alec Lightwood
Comments: 15
Kudos: 109
Collections: Very Best Malec





	Thyme and thistle

**Author's Note:**

> Thus begins my crossover into a new fandom... please, do be kind. 
> 
> This is also not beta'd, because it took me far longer than it should have and I wanted to get it out there – but if you spot any glaring errors, please let me know. 
> 
> As for the timeline, this is at an unspecified point in time somewhere past the S2 finale. I just wanted them to have some peace and quiet, really.

Time has no meaning when Magnus wakes up; all he knows is that it’s dark outside, there’s light filtering in from the slightly ajar door to the hall, and the muted sound of waves lapping against rock fills the bedroom through the cracked-open window.

The Isle of Skye, then. They actually made it out of New York, away from the Institute and the loft and all the responsibilities that come with keeping the city safe, managing their rag-tag group of friends, and two high-flying jobs.

After a brief moment of disorientation – there are no limbs wrapped around him, which at this point feels just plain wrong – he opens his eyes to a quite frankly delightful view.

There, at the foot of their bed, stands Alexander, his back turned to Magnus as he looks out over the sea.

It bears testament to how far away the Shadowhunter is in his own world that he doesn’t react in the slightest when the warlock slowly pushes himself up to rest against the headboard, arranging the mound of pillows behind him for maximum comfort.

So Magnus uses the opportunity to look his fill, drink in what is presented so freely, without Alec bashfully denying any compliment that might be thrown his way.

And what a sight he is, Magnus thinks, wearing nothing but black boxers and what the warlock recognizes to be his own soft grey cardigan. 

Loosely wrapped in the chunky knit, his arms out of view in a way suggesting they are all that’s stopping the garment from sliding off, Alec is all long legs, narrow hips and broad shoulders, a perfect silhouette against the faint light of a lazy full moon hanging in the sky.

Scratch that, the warlock says to himself, this is probably the best view he’s laid eyes upon in his entire long life.

And that’s saying something, considering Magnus hasn’t only seen a lot of very beautiful things and even more stunning people, he has been privy to the object of his affection in various states of undress and arousal, below and above and on his knees in front of him, has run his hands over the expanse of supple skin covering hard muscle and into thick, unruly strands of black hair.

Still, the image of Alexander wearing Magnus’s clothes – in this case something neither of them would be seen dead in if it was more than just the two of them – makes the warlock’s breath hitch.

If he were to push the fabric aside, he knows he’d find finger-shaped bruises around his Nephilim’s hips and purple-red-blue-green marks littering his torso, telling of the lust and deep affection that kept them confined to this room ever since they arrived sometime yesterday.

The bed had been too inviting, too comfortable to do more than unpack at the literal snap of a finger. There was no way Magnus was going to waste any second on making sure their clothes stayed crease free if he could spend it rolling around an obscenely huge, bouncy-soft bed doing equally obscene things to his favourite person.

The joy of it all. He’ll never get over how responsive Alexander is, how he so readily melts into touch while expressing his own affection and desire without much restraint.

And yet nothing they have done could have prepared Magnus for the moment the cardigan slips down, revealing one shoulder to the cool night air.

It’s a miniscule movement, just too-loosely held cloth rearranging itself through the force of gravity, but Magnus’ mouth runs dry still.

He wills himself to swallow, thicker than expected, and breathe.

If only Alec knew the power he holds. He could be devastating, Magnus thinks. No, he _is_ devastating already, all innocence and so deeply unaware of his own beauty, his own magnificence and the fact that he could – and, when necessary, does – shake the world to its core with a simple action.

Magnus would crown him if he could, make him rule not only the earth but beyond, topple the Seelie queen and have Alexander ascend in her place.

He’d look the part, for sure, and be a lot fairer. More honest, too.

Only then does Magnus remember that he can do that, in a way. The crowning part, that is, although he would certainly not object to the Seelie queen meeting an untimely end, as long as her successor is someone who won’t put the Downworld at risk.

So he begins weaving magic, never taking his eyes off Alexander who seemingly continues his daydreaming.

It almost comes too easy, Magnus thinks as he laces strands of his power together in an intricate pattern before snapping it into existence.

But when a blue-and-purple flower crown perches itself on Alec’s head, a strong contrast against both raven hair and pale, marked-up skin, something feels utterly right. It’s exquisite, _he’s_ exquisite, in a way Magnus thinks would have inspired other men to wax poetically, probably dedicating verse after verse.

 _If Homer could have met the Nephilim, this one in particular,_ Magnus’ mind helpfully provides, _Ulysses would have never made it home._

But oh, how poetic it is indeed to fall for a boy who is so blissfully unaware of the power he holds in a single lingering look.

The appearance of something on his head makes the young man in question start and tense for a second before he visibly relaxes again.

‘What are you doing?’ he murmurs, his voice low. Alec turns his head just a little, looking at the warlock out of the corner of his eyes as the corners of his mouth turn up in a lopsided smile.

His voice carries undertones of bemusement and something akin to fond exasperation, as if Magnus were a teenager causing mischief – when it is a well-known fact that mischief practically seeks out Magnus. He has no active doing in the matter… most of the time.

‘Nothing,’ the warlock replies, maybe a little too fast if Alec’s fond scoff is anything to go by.

‘Am I supposed to believe that?’

‘Well, uncharacteristically for the last 20 hours or so, I’m not doing you,’ Magnus counters.

‘So we can safely assume “nothing” is the correct answer to your question.’

That tickles a quiet laugh out of Alec – one of the rare ones, which make his eyes crinkle around the edges as he squints, his head lightly tipped back and his body shaking slightly with mirth.

Sure, he smiles more, he laughs more ever since this, since they, started, but at his heart Alec is still a deeply guarded, private person and seeing him so uncaring and open will never stop being special.

And Magnus’ heart flutters. If he were less of a romantic, he’d roll his eyes at himself.

Comfortable silence falls again as Alec turns back, but Magnus can’t stay still much longer. After half a minute, if even, he finds himself crawling down the bed.

“Mine ear is much enamour’d of thy note,” he gently starts as he comes to stand behind Alexander, slinging his arms around the Shadowhunter’s middle as he rests his forehead against a bare shoulder blade.

“So is mine eye enthralled to thy shape;  
And thy fair virtue’s force perforce doth move me  
On the first view to say, to swear, I love thee.”

He ends the line by pressing his lips to the proffered skin before straightening up to rest his chin on his lover’s shoulder. As much as Magnus likes to claim they’re the same height, the difference between them means he has to rise on his tiptoes – ever so little – to reach.

Not that he’d say it out loud in the company of most people, but he loves it.

‘Did you just recite lines Shakespeare originally directed at a donkey to me?’

Alec turns his head to the side at that, the twinkle in his eyes complementing the rosy blush shooting into his cheeks.

‘Oh, you know what I meant,’ Magnus replies.

‘Content not context, darling. Don’t ruin my romancing you.’

The other man’s soft chuckle shakes both their bodies.

‘I love you, too,’ Alec whispers, pressing a kiss to Magnus’ cheek.

He is still a little warm from sleep, his muscles loose and supple as he leans back against his partner. Just a bit, never enough to upset their balance, but it makes Magnus tighten his arms and hum, a sound deep in his chest.

This is comfortable, it’s safe… it’s home, he realizes with a start, even thousands of miles away from New York.

Magnus breathes in deeply, as if to fill his lungs with this moment, and notices something else: far from hugging himself, Alec is cradling a steaming mug. His vantage point and the way the light falling in from the hallway blurs their reflection in the window don’t give the mug’s contents away, but then the earthy notes hit his nostrils.

‘Are you actually, voluntarily having a hot drink that’s not coffee?’

The resounding chuckle is full of warmth.

‘Mhairi made me a cup of tea when we arrived, while you were busy doing your thing with the wards and all, so I just copied,’ Alec says by way of explanation.

‘It’s nice.’

With that he offers the mug to Magnus, who curiously takes a sip; if Alexander likes it, their landlady for the weekend must have infused it with some sort of magic or other.

Or maybe it’s the fact that she immediately took a shine to the young Nephilim – even more so when he introduced himself as Alec. A good, proper Scottish name as she declared in her own broad accent while whisking him away to the kitchen, launching into a fast patter about the beauty of young love and how they cannot, under any circumstance, miss visiting the fairy glen, ideally just around daybreak.

The implication about “young love” had been heavy in her voice and Magnus had caught a glimpse of Alec furiously blushing, but she had been warm and teasing so he’d let them be.

It’s not as if she was wrong, either. They haven’t left the bedroom, really, and Magnus is pretty sure she’d praise them for it.

He is dragged from his musings when the flavour hits his tongue. The first touch of tea on his taste buds is bitter before it blooms into something else, rich and floral with milky soft undertones and a sweet kick.

It’s like a metaphor for the man in his arms, he thinks, as he passes the mug back.

‘It _is_ nice,’ he says, feeling rather than seeing Alec smile where his cheek rests against Magnus’ temple.

‘All the nicer for having you awake,’ Alec hums.

It’s such a simple sentiment but spoken with a level of honesty that makes Magnus’ heart beat momentarily faster. People are fast to think Alec would be the one to question how he could have landed someone like the warlock. They’re not wrong, because Magnus knows his partner does feel insecure – sometimes his looks betray it, other times he’s voiced it – but what they don’t know is that the older man asks himself the same question, too. Quite frequently.

Few people have been fully honest with him. And while there was the debacle with the Soul Sword, it was never about Alexander’s intentions or feelings towards him, but born out of a deep-rooted wish, almost a need, to protect Magnus and keep the peace between all the different factions.

While it’s not ideal, it’s a much easier lie to forgive than if the Shadowhunter had been dishonest about their relationship.

Instead of dwelling on what that means, Magnus continues his line of enquiry.

‘How long have you been up, then?’

‘Just a few minutes – enough to make this,’ the young man offers quietly.

‘Couldn’t sleep? And here I thought I tired you out.’

Gentle teasing comes so easily it feels like it should be illegal. Especially when the resulting soft scoff sounds not offended at all, but more like a challenge.

Alec isn’t always the best sleeper, which is partly the reason why Magnus enticed him on this brief break away from the stress of their daily lives in the first place. They both need to relax and Skye had always been close to Magnus’ heart. Taking his introverted boyfriend to this pocket of peace and quiet felt natural.

The sleep issues mainly kick in when Alec is far too stressed and stretched too thin, but sometimes there seems to be no other reason than that overactive brain of his playing catch-up with the world and all that’s happening.

Another short laugh breaks the silence.

‘You did. I think. Tire me out, that is.’ The fondness in Alec’s voice is almost tangible, wrapping around Magnus like a warm blanket.

‘But no, I just couldn’t lie down anymore,’ the Nephilim says, rolling his shoulders. He noticeably takes care so as not to dislodge the warlock still hanging onto his body, but going by the low groan leaving Alec’s throat the faint crack of his vertebrae doesn’t seem to quite satisfy him.

The typical aches, then. Switching from 24/7 active duty to a job that sees him sit at a desk quite often has taken its toll on Alexander as much as it would do on any mundane. It’s gotten better – Magnus made sure of that – but some days his tight, aching muscles still force the Shadowhunter out of bed far earlier than both of them would like.

‘Plus Jace texted and he’s wired about something, so even with my phone on silent… our bond probably woke me, too. Couldn’t go back to sleep and didn’t want to wake you, so I thought I’d just… look at the stars,’ the Shadowhunter continues, his timbre turning wistful on the last words.

‘You don’t see them very often in New York, but here…’

Magnus follows the gesture of his lover’s hand, towards the scene beyond their window. He has to focus a bit at first, but then the firmament opens and, almost as if he peels away a glamour, reveals a myriad of stars.

Quietly glittering in their heavenly perch, with no light pollution to wash them out, Magnus imagines they reflect in Alec’s eyes if he angles his head just right.

Of course they don’t, not really, but he gets to see his boyfriend’s face, taken over by a quiet joy that touches something deep inside the warlock’s heart.

And then he feels it, an energy faintly prickling on his skin, an electric current running up his arms. It takes a second to register, but when it slots into place he knows their night is about to get even more magical.

‘Get dressed,’ he urgently whispers in Alec’s ear, before remembering the crown perched on the other man’s head.

‘That’s not what you normally say,’ comes the quick reply, equally as low and present with a delicately raised eyebrow. 

The crown he still hasn’t inquired about, which means he’s either not fully noticed or, the option Magnus thinks far more likely, is waiting for the right moment. 

‘Or actually… I’ll sort it.’

With a snap of his fingers they’re both changed, Alec in all-black jeans and a t-shirt, Magnus in black trousers and midnight blue shirt with just a hint of sparkle. It’s appropriate for the occasion, but toned down enough to pass as casual. 

The cardigan that had separated their skin lies neatly folded on the bed, abandoned for now – although Magnus thinks they might need to revisit Alexander wearing it again, even if he won’t be draped in it for long.

‘Alright, let’s go,’ Magnus urges, grasping Alec’s hand and practically dragging him outside, excitement thrumming through his veins.

There is almost no resistance from the young man, who follows as willingly as ever.

‘Where are we going?’ He sounds a bit wheezy, the sudden change in pace catching him by surprise.

‘And what did you put on my hea… hey, let me have a look.’

Uncharacteristically, Magnus has to drag him along before the Shadowhunter can look into the mirror. As much as he’d relish the chance to tease him about suddenly paying attention beyond his usual quick, perfunctory outfit checks, there is no time for the Nephilim’s curiosity right now.

‘No time. I’ll tell you in a bit,’ he says.

‘It’s good, I promise. And you’ll see where we’re going. Just… trust me. I promise it’ll be worth it.’

And he leads the other man out of the cottage and into the fields of heather. The air is cool but not unpleasantly so, a gentle breeze carrying in from the sea.

Surprised laughter fills the night as Alec stumbles, barely catching his balance. Magnus draws him in for a quick kiss, one that doesn’t last because they’ve caught the giggles now and it’ll be a minute until they stop, plus they have places to be.

So they stumble and stagger, giddy and lovedrunk and driven by Magnus’ excitement, towards the low stone wall marking the end of the cottage’s land, cross it, and carefully inch towards the cliff edge where waves lap against rock.

Unlike back home the night is really dark here, the full moon above them the only illumination. Beside Magnus Alec has gone a bit tense, his instincts kicking in whether he wants to or not, but his audible breath betrays the light mood from before.

As if to calm himself, reign himself in, Alexander makes to run his hand through his hair, only for his fingers to bump against on of the blooms adorning his head.

Thistles don’t usually draw blood, Magnus has made sure of that, but it’s enough of a sting to make Alec’s fingers recoil. His eyes are quizzical as he looks at the man beside him, one eyebrow elegantly arched.

‘Did you… do I have a flower in my hair?’

Alexander’s disbelief lacks any negativity but drips with curiosity. He’s probably long given up questioning Magnus’ sanity, the warlock thinks wryly to himself, and instead just decided to welcome any new way to express affection and any sort of magic play with open arms, a curious mind, and the unbridled willingness to run with (almost) all of it.

‘A whole crown, actually,’ Magnus explains cheerfully.

Whatever the other man means to say next is swallowed up by a low gasp. Magnus doesn’t need to look to know what’s happening, but when he turns his head and catches sight of a small stripe of green light hurrying across the horizon, he knows they were just on time.

Seconds later the sky above them is awash with the same shade of green, ribbon after ribbon of light twisting, twirling, staggering across the vast expanse.

Beside him, Alec has gone almost lax, staring up into the night with honest fascination. His arms are relaxed at his side and his head is tipped back, unrestrained joy lighting up his features at the spectacle in front of them.

This time it does reflect in his eyes, but even if it didn’t Magnus couldn’t tear his gaze away from the sight. He’s committing this moment to memory in its entirety, no detail left out, and it feels profound. He has half a mind to conjure up his phone, take a digital reminder of this, but the warlock doesn’t want to tear his eyes away even for a second.

Besides, it couldn’t do the scene justice and he can always magic up a physical duplicate of this memory at any given point once they’re home.

So Magnus sidles up to Alec, closing the last little distance between them, and slings his arm around slim hips, drawing the other man into his body. There is no resistance, no verbal acknowledgement, simply Alec leaning into him in a show of trust that would have been a hundred ways of impossible when they first started out.

The Northern Lights dance above their heads and Magnus feels his heart soar to join them.

‘Magnus, they’re… this… wow.’

Alec’s voice is a whisper full of wonder, of almost childish glee.

The warlock’s answering hum is deep and content.

‘Look closer,’ he murmurs.

‘Peel back the glamour.’

A second passes, then two, but Alec’s deep inhale is Magnus’ sign that he got it.

‘The mundanes often call them the Merry Dancers here,’ he continues softly, by way of explanation.

‘Sometimes the heavenly dancers, too, but the sentiment still stands.’

‘If only they knew,’ Alec whispers, still deeply fascinated.

Because in the ribbons of light the two men can make out bodies, writhing and clashing in a never ending tide, driven by music only they can hear. On closer inspection it becomes clear some of them are attempting to fight instead, but there is a strange beauty to their movements.

‘I know, right?’ The warlock can’t keep the smug amusement out of his voice.

’They think they’re fallen angels, or sky warriors fighting an eternal battle – you’ll find stones mottled with red pigment all over the island, which the mundanes believed were formed by their blood raining down from the sky.’

‘But if they’re not that, who are they?’

Alec’s voice has taken on almost a reverend tone, but he tears his eyes away for a few seconds to look at Magnus curiously.

‘The victims of the Unseelie Court,’ the warlock provides.

‘People who stepped into a fairy ring at night and are forever forced to dance to entertain the king. Some of them die, some of them go insane first… but they’re all offered a spot among the Merry Dancers, the halfway point between alive and dead, where they won’t ever be able to stop dancing.’

Breaths falling into sync the couple watch, enthralled, as the formation passes.

‘That’s a morbid kind of romantic,’ Alec concludes while the light starts to fizzle out.

‘But I can’t help but find them beautiful. Tragic, yes, but incredible to look at.’

‘They are,’ Magnus agrees, absentmindedly stroking his partner’s side as a particularly fresh breeze chases goosebumps up Alec’s bare arms.

 _Almost like you when we first met,_ Magnus thinks but leaves the sentence unsaid so as not to mar the memory.

He’s here, with his arms full of Alexander, sea air whipping through their hair and depositing salt on their skin. There is no room for tragedy.

‘Come on, let’s get you inside,’ Magnus murmurs, lacing his fingers through Alec’s and making to gently tug him back towards their temporary home. ‘Before you catch a cold after all.’

He could just conjure up a jacket, yes, but it’s still the middle of the night and they should probably catch some more sleep. Their time is limited as it is, but Magnus genuinely wants to explore the island with Alec; a nice long walk in the fairy glen and probably along the cliffs, too, followed by far too much food in his favorite pub and ending with the two of them curled around each other in front of their cottage’s fireplace sounds like absolute heaven.

Only Alexander doesn’t really budge at first but just looks Magnus, his head cocked to the side betraying the curiosity that’s probably eating him up inside.

In response, Magnus raises his eyebrows and gives a gentle tug of his hand again, as if to reiterate his earlier invite. This time Alexander follows and they fall into a languid pace that’s closer to ambling than it is to any form of walking with purpose and direction.

As quickly as they started walking they stop again, Alec turning towards Magnus.

‘So... what kind of stabby death trap flower have you put on my head, exactly?’

‘It’s not a death trap. It couldn’t kill you if it tried,’ the warlock argues but is interrupted before he can elaborate.

‘Well, I stung myself on it,’ Alec shoots back, his voice echoing the smile on his face.

‘How are you gonna explain that, if not by admitting it’s a spiky death trap?’

Alexander’s smile moulds into a boyish smirk, one eyebrow raised in enquiry. He’s got very expressive eyebrows, Magnus thinks to himself, while he takes his partner’s other hand.

‘It’s a thistle,’ he says quietly. ‘And I’ll have you know I used my magic to make it less prickly.’

When he wove the crown it seemed like innocent fun, but as the first words leave his mouth Magnus realises what kind of position he has put himself in. There’s no way Alec will stop his line of enquiry after just that; with any other partner, Magnus would’ve been able to bank on them overlooking – or forgetting – the odd detail.

But of course he’d have to fall in love with someone whose brain is virtually always switched on. They really are alike in that regard.

And now he’s stood here, bare faced and with his hair down, wearing no embellishments to turn Magnus Bane the person into Magnus Bane, the High Warlock of Brooklyn, and realises he’s made himself even more vulnerable than any following statements will, purely by virtue of his appearance (or lack thereof). 

Age does not protect against folly. 

‘What am I wearing a crown of thistles for?’

‘It’s not only thistles,’ Magnus admonishes, taking back one hand to run it up a pale temple and push back a stray strand of soft black hair. 

‘It’s a whole bouquet, really.’

He takes a breath, deeply aware of Alec’s curious stare. It’s probably taking a reasonable effort, but the Shadowhunter says nothing, his hazel eyes trained on Magnus as if waiting for clarification.

‘It’s… wild mountain thyme, to represent your courage, and purple thistle, to symbolise a noble character, bound with purple heather for protection and white one to convey my admiration,’ the warlock starts, raising his hand once more to run his fingers up Alec’s cheek before cradling it in his palm.

Magnus’ heart gives a flutter as his Shadowhunter leans into the touch, visibly enthralled by the words spilling out of the other man’s mouth. 

‘Then there’s eucalyptus, also for protection, a little ivy to mark my fidelity,’ he continues, linking their hands together once more. ‘All finished off with baby’s breath as a symbol of long-lasting love.’

And suddenly there are hands cradling his face and lips on his and Alec is kissing him, deep and urgent and perfect in that way of his. With a sigh, Magnus melts into the kiss, running one hand up a bare arm, a shoulder, and into the hair at the nape of Alec’s neck while the other arm slings around his waist, fingers splayed wide over a strong lower back to draw the Shadowhunter in closer.

The way here should’ve been a warning, but by some trapping of fate or the other – or some fairy meddling – one of them stumbles. Magnus couldn’t say who it was; he’s too preoccupied with the man in his arms and the strength of his reaction to the warlock’s admission.

Still, someone trips and stumbles and by virtue of their distracted minds they take a tumble, Shadowhunter landing on top of warlock, the impact briefly knocking the air out of each other’s lungs.

Quick as ever and driven by concern, Alec drops his hands to the ground to push himself up and take the weight off his partner’s body. Magnus immediately mourns the loss of the other man’s long fingers cupping his jaw and cheeks, of his warmth and their full-body contact; yet he also can’t help but delight in being treated almost delicately.

It’s not like he can’t take Alec’s weight – or as if he doesn’t like the feeling of his boyfriend’s body pressing him into the ground – but the other man’s careful, instinctive consideration tickles Magnus’ soft spot for the Shadowhunter in all the best ways.

However, the warlock is also not one to pass up a chance like this: his boyfriend, warm and solid and willing, kissing him almost as if his life depended on it. So, with a decisive flourish, he relocates his hands to rest flat against the front of Alec’s shoulders and pushes, flipping them over so he lands on top.

The action draws a surprised sound from the back of Alec’s throat, but he doesn’t let up. With a little wriggle he makes space for Magnus to slot between his legs, their bodies fitting together like pieces of a puzzle, while the warlock in question runs a curious hand into the collar of his partner’s t-shirt. The skin covering Alexander’s collarbones always surprises him in its softness, but so does the reaction he draws tonight: a gentle shiver and a soft sigh, deep and sated and radiating happiness.

Separating to draw in air, the Shadowhunter squints up at his partner. In turn, Magnus noses at the readily available rune on the other man’s neck in a show of unconstrained affection.

‘Not that I’m complaining,’ he starts, idly twirling two fingers in the dark locks curling over Alexander’s left ear.

‘But what brought this on?’

‘I love you. I _adore_ you,’ Alec says breathlessly, curling up to steal another brief kiss.

‘I don’t know how I deserve you, after everything I did and how I fucked up, but I love you. Your big heart, the gestures which are small on the outside but grand in the context of us, grand in a way that doesn’t make me uncomfortable, the way you just… get me, how you so freely give me, well, this.’

He vaguely points to the crown on his head. To anyone else it would probably look half casual, but Magnus knows this is about more than the fact that he crafted a physical expression of his own innermost feelings at this very point in time. 

‘Always,’ he murmurs, pressing another kiss to Alexander’s lips to relieve his boyfriend from feeling like he has to say more. Magnus gets it, he really does, and he in turn can’t help the little whine that escapes his throat when the Shadowhunter kisses him back. 

What was some degree of frantic or the other before turns soft, languid, as they take their time to just lie and kiss and _be_ in this moment. Just the two of them; nobody to interrupt them, to make demands or cause a distraction. 

It’s delightfully pure to lie here and just kiss, Magnus thinks and feels his heart beat faster at the thought. Below him, Alec shuffles a little, more a shimmy of the shoulders than anything else. 

‘Sorry,’ he whispers as Magnus makes a displeased sound. 

‘Just getting comfy.’

And then his hand slides up to sit between Magnus’ shoulder blades, pressing the warlock down as Alexander claims his lips once more. 

The gentleness makes Maguns want to cry, especially paired with a possessive gesture like this. In a heartbeat, he realises how close they came to losing each other, permanently, and how amazing it is that they managed to overcome it. 

Although it feels impossible, it makes the whole situation taste even sweeter. 

Magnus doesn’t know how much time passes, but the next time they’re interrupted it’s because Alexander has to yawn. It should be ungraceful, Magnus knows it should, but still his heart does a weird little hop-skip and refuses to see the action – the crinkling of his Shadowhunter’s eyes, how he muffles the sound with the back of his hand – as anything but adorable. Especially when Alec blinks at him, much like a cat, and looks all sleepy and just about ready to drop into unconsciousness. 

‘Well,’ Magnus starts, carefully standing up and ignoring the other man’s sound of disagreement at the loss of contact. 

‘It’s about time I got you to bed, I think.’ 

He reaches down to help Alexander up, who graciously accepts the offer. With one of his arms slung around Magnus’ waist, tucking the warlock snugly into his side, they amble back to the cottage. 

The warmth hits Magnus as soon as he flings open the door; goosebumps rising on his Shadowhunter’s arms betray that it’s the same for him, too. As if to reinforce the point the young man shivers, too. 

Comfortable silence settles as they, once again, get ready for bed. Sliding underneath the snow white covers is heavenly, the cotton soft against bare skin and the faintest hint of detergent rising. He ought to get some for their loft, Magnus muses. 

Their loft. 

It has a ring to it, he thinks, and a very nice one at that. 

Before he can fall further down that particular rabbit hole, a warm body cuddles up to him, long arms enveloping the warlock and settling over his heart. 

‘One half of me is yours, the other half yours,’ Alexander whispers into his ear. 

‘Mine own, I would say; but if mine, then yours,  
And so all yours.’ 

He may not think he’s good with words, but he certainly knows which quotes to pick to make Magnus lose it with emotion. 

But as he turns around in his partner’s embrace, Magnus notices Alexander is already asleep, his breath deep and even and his face free of worries. On his head, the flower crown sits steady, a single thistle gently swaying as he exhales a breath. 

It’s a beautiful sight. 

For the first time tonight, Magnus can’t hold back the urge. With a snap of his fingers his phone is in his hand. 

And if he takes a hundred pictures, he knows they still won’t be enough. 

‘You really never cease to amaze me,’ he murmurs, running a finger over Alexander’s jawline and delighting in the beginning stubble. 

The last thing he hears before succumbing to sleep is a deep voice, whispering ‘your crown should be red. And have roses.’ into his ear. 

He’ll tackle that in the morning. 

They’ll look so good together.

**Author's Note:**

> That's it.
> 
> I hope you had as much fun reading this as I had while writing it. In all honesty, this is almost 6000 words of self-indulgent fluff, but I toyed with the idea for so long I had to write it down - and as said, I do believe those two deserve some peace and quiet. 
> 
> (I don't know what to think of the ending, but I'm rarely happy with those.)
> 
> If you enjoyed this, please let me know - kudos and comments mean the world and genuinely brighten my day. 
> 
> Hopefully, I have a few more stories for this fandom in me - I do have the ideas, I just need to write them down.


End file.
